


One and the Same

by Jazzering



Category: Secret of Kells (2009), Young Wizards - Diane Duane
Genre: Gen, I Don't Even Know, To Be Continued, probably?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2017-08-24
Packaged: 2018-01-21 21:11:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1564211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jazzering/pseuds/Jazzering
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Book that turns Darkness into Light didn't come to do that on its own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from Thor's speech to Jane regarding science and magic. 
> 
> Chapter 1 was written with the help of Farewell to Dobby from the soundtrack of _Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows_.

Aidan knew the Vikings were coming. The Wind, whistling over the tops of the waves that rolled down from the north, told him so. Their abbot listened, accepted the explanation of a heavenly warning (it was not, Aidan knew, strictly untrue), and used the time Aidan’s message had bought them to prepare the villagers to flee.

Aidan protested the lack of immediate action, pressed by the urgency in the howling Wind, but it was planting time. The villagers needed every day to prepare their crops, and in this matter practicality won out over warnings, even those purportedly delivered by holy messengers. Most, still only half-convinced of the power of the Christian god and his followers, would not have fled even if the abbot had commanded them to. They barely listened to a simple brother like Aidan, and so there was very little to be done. Aidan settled down to wait, heart perpetually in his throat and one ear cocked at all times, ready to sound the alarm when the Wind's information changed.

It was not enough.

The Vikings came shortly after dawn on a fine spring day. Aidan, watering the monastery herb garden after morning prayers, had just reached the last row when the Wind screamed a warning, and he dropped his jar of fresh water and ran for the bell tower. There were the black ships -- the Wind screamed again -- Aidan seized the bell’s rope and pulled, pulled, pulled.

Until the day he died, Aidan never entirely remembered Iona’s fall. There had been running, he knew. A book thrust into his arms. _The_ Book. Fragments of shouted speech -- directions, encouragements, prayers, pleas. Shouted Speech -- killing spells mixed with prayers mixed with killing spells again, until at last Aidan gritted his teeth and simply ran. Pangur Bán leaping into the boat before him, meeting his eyes when he hesitated. Screams; the hiss and crackle and roar of fire and water and wind. Was he told to flee? He doesn’t remember. Did he look back? Aidan doesn’t remember that either.

_Ireland._

His first day ashore he spent simply wandering the coast, dizzy with hunger and thirst but unwilling to leave the sea yet. It linked him to his brothers, to his home. The Book of Iona was heavy in his hands, but it, too, was a link. He did not set it down. He did not speak. He did not weep. And it was fully night before Aidan traded sand for earth and sat heavily, leaning against a friendly tree. Pangur Bán curled up beside him, purring desperately, and after a minute Aidan managed to free a hand from the Book to pet her. It was a long time before he fell -- not into sleep, but into unconsciousness.

_The darkness was bright. Pangur Bán leaped delicately from his lap and sat at his side, curling her tail gracefully around her body. The moon shone on the still sea, and on two familiar figures striding over the water towards the shore. Aidan stood and ran with the speed of youth to meet them, the Book left, forgotten for the moment, by the tree._

_“Brother Aidan!” boomed Brother Eamonn, and swept his former apprentice into a bear hug. “It’s been too long! The Book?”_

_“It is beautiful,” Aidan said truthfully, and the two men smiled at one another for a moment. “But my hands grow unsteady, Eamonn, and my eyes are old. I cannot complete it, or the Chi-Rho page.”_

_Eamonn continued to smile. “Yet you have much to teach.” He took Aidan’s head in his large hands and pressed a dry, gentle kiss to the shorter man’s forehead. “You will find someone who will learn, as I found you, and Brother Tomas found me, and Columcille found him.” Eamonn stepped away, and before Aidan could call him back the Abbot of Iona moved to take his place._

_“Abbot.” Aidan bowed, but firm hands pulled him back up and drew the lines of the cross before him in blessing._

_“You have done well. Now go forth and do even better. Take the Book of Iona to the people, Aidan, and do not be afraid.”_

_Grief and love and joy rose suddenly in him, and Aidan let them. “That is easier said than done,” he laughed through his tears, and didn’t bother to wipe his eyes. “But I will try.”_

_The Abbot smiled, and Pangur Bán purred at their ankles. “Good.”_

When Aidan woke the next morning, sticky tear tracks beneath his eyes and a smile on his lips, he stood, stretched, thanked the tree that had kept watch for him through the night, and hung the satchel that held the Book from his shoulder before returning to the waterside. 

Before him, the sea roared and hissed, a reminder of his journey and the island that lay in ruins beyond it, but Aidan had seen moonlight on its still waters the night before, and sunlight illuminated it now. He watched it for a long moment, then raised a hand in farewell and turned away. An old friend of his, Brother Cellach, had been granted his own abbey some years before, near the heart of Ireland. He would find his way and his new home there. And perhaps...perhaps even his apprentice.

“There are no accidents,” Aidan said quietly. “Come on, Pangur.”


	2. Chapter 2

Though it had been years since he’d seen Cellach, Aidan still thought of him as a much younger man, with an unlined face and bright blue eyes that lit up whenever he so much as stood beneath a tree. He could recall perfectly, with warm clarity, the surprisingly delicate sight of Cellach at work, his large hands coaxing art from ink and vellum and quill with patience and skill. Now the man’s face was marred by time, too little sleep, and too much frowning, and his eyes had faded from blue to washed-out grey.

And then there was the matter of the wall…

But Aidan had traveled since spring to reach Kells, and Cellach was a good man. That was not changed so easily.

The brothers of the abbey carried him to the scriptorium on a wave of introductions, questions, and explanations, and flocked excitedly by the door as he took the Book from his shoulder and surveyed the room. It was nothing like the scriptorium on Iona, Aidan realized with what might have been relief.

“Fine size of a place, isn’t it,” he said approvingly, listening to the way his words blended with the chatter and laughter of the other brothers. He had missed this. “Good, clean air, fine light coming from those windows, very good indeed.”

A high voice cut through the lower murmur of the brothers’ chatter: “Is that where you keep the Book?”

“Hm?”

A redheaded boy, maybe twelve, met Aidan’s gaze with bright, curious blue eyes, and Aidan had to smile – he was some relation of Cellach’s, that much was clear, though probably shorter than the Abbot had been at his age.

The older brothers shifted away from the boy as though asking about the Book had been a taboo of some sort. Since learning his identity, they had been treating Aidan as though he were the most interesting thing in the room and not the contents of the satchel he carried, but Aidan spoke the Speech. He knew the value of honesty.

“And who might you be? A very short brother, I see,” he joked, and the tension in the room eased; the brothers gathered close again. “Although short of stature is never as short of questions.” _And thank the Powers for that._ “And of what interest is the book to you?”

The boy began to explain, but before he so much as uttered a full sentence Cellach swept back into control of the room, reminding the brothers of their work and ushering Aidan off with barely enough time for him to ask the boy to feed Pangur.

“You see, I’m determined to complete the fortifications within two years, and –”

“The boy is yours?”

Shocked, Cellach pulled away from Aidan and glared; the expression had grown more impressive since the last time Aidan had seen it. He held up his hands in a conciliatory gesture.

“I know your vows remain unbroken. I meant only in the larger sense of the word.”

After a moment Cellach gave a brief nod and resumed walking in silence, leaving Aidan to keep pace.

“My nephew, Brendan,” he offered after a moment, his voice stiffly fond. “His parents were killed by Northmen eight years ago.”

Perhaps that helped to explain the wall. “I’m sorry.”

Another short nod; another moment of silence. Cellach drew in a breath, held it as though debating what to say, then sighed.

“What brings you to Kells, Brother Aidan?”

They were halfway to the tower at the center of the abbey, which Aidan assumed held Cellach’s workroom. News of Iona could wait until they reached it. “Not out here. Inside.”

“You come with bad news.” Cellach sounded resigned, and wary, and tired. Aidan sighed in regretful affirmation. “Inside, then,” Cellach agreed. “Follow me.”

He led Aidan up the tower stairs, the two wordlessly pacing in tight circles until Aidan almost requested a break. But one more turn and Cellach opened the door to his study, gesturing Aidan inside before him. He stepped into the dark room, then stopped in awe, gaping up at the sketches all along the wall and floor and ceiling, beyond his reach but clearly not out of Cellach’s.

“Incredible,” he breathed. The drawings spread across every surface available, wrapping around the rounded inside of the tower until he almost thought he was floating in midair, supported only by lines of chalk. Only a few scant pieces of furniture, Cellach’s desk and bed, ruined the impression. The majority of the floor seemed to be reserved for a scaled diagram of the entire abbey itself, as viewed from above; it was as intricately and carefully drawn as a spell. He’d have to take a closer look at it –

Behind him Cellach shut the study door with a heavy, pointed thud, and with a start Aidan remembered where he was, what he had come here to say and do. He took a breath. There was no suitable preamble for this kind of announcement.

“Iona is destroyed,” he said simply, and Cellach’s footsteps faltered, then stopped.

“Iona – destroyed?” A quick inhale. Then his brow furrowed into a frown and he turned to stare out of the window. “How?” he murmured.

“The Vikings came down from the north in the spring,” Aidan said quietly, and for a moment he could smell the scent of Iona’s garden and sea breeze and sunshine, just as he had then. “I tried to warn the abbot, the villagers, but – it was planting time.” Cellach was staring at him now, his expression both astonished and horrified. Aidan swallowed, hard, and hunched his shoulders under the taller man’s gaze. “They holed our boats before they raided the abbey. There was one they didn’t find, hidden away. The abbot gave me the Book of Iona, and I ran.”

For a long moment the air in the dark tower lay heavy in the silence between them, filling in the rest of Aidan’s story for him. Finally he sighed and straightened, met his brother’s eyes. “I traveled down the length of Ireland, teaching. I knew your abbey was here.”

Cellach’s speechlessness held for another long pause. “I mourn your loss,” he said at last, voice uncharacteristically soft, and bowed his head. “Eternal rest grant unto them, oh Lord, and perpetual light shine upon them,” he intoned. “Grant forgiveness to our brothers and sisters, and grant them a peaceful resting place.”

“Amen,” Aidan finished quietly.

“Amen." Cellach turned to him, reached out a hand. "Aidan –”

For a moment Aidan thought the abbot would say something else in comfort, but then Cellach’s eyes focused on the chalk-drawn abbey on the floor before him, and when he looked up again there was something very close to fear on his face.

“You should not have come here,” Cellach said harshly, and dropped his hand. “The Northmen will have followed you –”

Distress made Aidan sharper than usual. “Did I have to stay, to be killed?” he retorted. “I escaped the Vikings and left them far behind, Brother Cellach.” The glare again. “Sorry, I mean Abbot Cellach.” He took a calming breath, and remembered the true end to his story. “The Book is saved, and I mean to complete it.”

“Yes.” Cellach turned away from him and paced toward the window, missing Pangur Bán’s unexpected entrance. “Well, we have more pressing things to complete here.”

More important than the Book. More important than all that it contained. Aidan couldn’t quite keep the dismissal out of his voice. “You mean your – wall?” Beside him, Pangur pressed against his ankle, whether to scold him or support him he couldn’t tell. Aidan nudged her back.

“Not _my_ wall, Aidan. A wall to save civilization!” Cellach’s large, artist’s hands flew up to bracket the window in irritated emphasis. "A wall to save _your Book_!” He sighed, and when he spoke again his composure had returned. “Pagans, Crom worshippers… It is with the strength of our walls that they will come to trust the strength of our faith.”

Looking closer at the drawings on the walls now, Aidan could see that they were all calculations, descriptions, angles and scales and diagrams, depictions of stones and pulleys and workers. No script. No beauty. No belief. Nothing but hard, cold function. Cellach had become a wall – in more ways than one – and Aidan, it seemed, had lost yet another brother. He knelt to look at the diagram of the abbey, drawn with a perfection born of familiarity, and ran his hand along the curve of the chalked wall in regret.

“You were always good at the old drawing, Cellach.”

“Yes,” Cellach said dismissively. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I have a lot to attend to.”

Aidan turned to leave. There was clearly nothing more he could say to reach Cellach. But – he faced his old friend one more time, and wished that he could show his conviction through use of the Speech.

“No wall can stop the Northmen, Abbot. When they come, all we can do is run, and hope that we are fast enough.”

It did no good; Cellach’s attention was lost. Aidan sighed, and turned away again. He was so tired of leaving his loved ones behind – but this time, he supposed, Cellach had done it first. That didn’t make it hurt any less. “Come on, Pangur.”

\--

Aidan strode with purpose down the winding stairs, Pangur Bán at his heels, and pushed open the tower door with a jerk. For a moment he stood at the tower entrance in the summer sun, clenching his jaw in frustration; then he sighed and sat on the wooden stairway, looking out over the abbey interior – at the refugees and villagers and brothers working side-by-side, unaware that it had been a day almost exactly like this one when Iona had fallen.

“He won’t listen, Pangur,” he said quietly. Pangur said nothing, but sat gracefully beside him as only a cat could and steadily met his eyes. Her mismatched gaze was patient, but intent, the way it was when she wanted him to focus on something else. Usually something specific. He frowned, thinking. “Just a minute. How did you get in there?”

She twitched her whiskers, a cat’s laugh. “There was a hole in the wall, and a tunnel up to the abbot’s study. The entrance is a little lower, just off the stairs.” Her tail curled in the air significantly. “The boy followed me. His name is Rreiehan.”

Aidan hid a smile. “I think something might have been lost in translation there, my dear.”

Pangur twitched her whiskers back, then forward again: an acknowledgement, a dismissal. “You’re missing the important part.”

“How much did he hear?”

“Very little. He was only telling you we shouldn’t have come." She made an unhappy sound. "Where else should we have gone?”

“Anywhere else, I imagine.” He sighed, and stood; not too far away a group of three brothers were headed for the tower, or for him. Pangur Bán stood as well.

“He’s going to come back to look at the Book.”

Aidan smiled, his mood lifting. “He just might.” The other men were definitely coming to see him; he could tell that they were watching him as they came closer. He stepped down the stairs to meet them. “Brothers! Are you looking for me?”

“Yes, Brother Aidan,” said a tall, angularly set brother in blue, smiling down at him. “We thought, perhaps, to introduce ourselves, and to show you around the abbey.”

“You’ll be wanting a hut, and a desk in the scriptorium, and provisions,” added the African brother -- a man of the Kingdom of Nri, from his accent -- in a booming voice.

“And perhaps something to eat?” finished a third brother, who clearly hailed from one of the many Italian city-states.

Aidan smiled at them all, glad to have more pleasant company and a chance to meet his new home. “That is very kind of you, and I humbly place myself in your hands. ‘More is done with three than one,’ as Columcille used to say. Or four, as the case may be. Lead on, and we’ll follow!”

The cheerful company of others and time spent outdoors in the fine summer weather was just what Aidan had needed after his audience with Cellach, and Brothers Square, Assoua, and Leonardo – for so the trio were called – were excellent guides. They introduced him to several refugees and the other brothers – including, though from a distance, Cellach’s nephew, who turned out to be named Brendan – showed him the chapel, the kitchens, and the outhouses, procured for him a small hut near the scriptorium and a pallet and chest to accompany it, and provided a more thorough tour of the scriptorium itself. By the end of the day Aidan was exhausted, but in high spirits and well on his way to settling comfortably into life at Kells. 

At last, he bade a cheerful goodnight to Brother Square and retired to his new home for the night, Pangur Bán at his side and both of their stomachs full of fish. He shut the hut's thin wooden door for privacy and then, with a grateful sigh, slowly lowered his creaking limbs to his pallet. After a moment he reached into thin air, pulling out his spare set of robes and a few other odds and ends – a comb, a quill, a candle. He closed the pocket again and neatly arranged his scant possessions in the small trunk that had come with the hut.

“Good to be settling in, eh, Pangur?” he asked, and turned to the door. _"I’m terribly sorry, I know I just closed you, but could you please open again?"_

The door politely acquiesced; Pangur, who was well used to this sort of thing, immediately sprawled in the opening. Through the newly opened doorway Aidan could see the glow from the villagers’ fires, and listen to the evening’s Wind telling him of the wizarding universe: the state of affairs on other planets, the songs of his cousins in the sea, the names of wizards in his vicinity – though sadly, there didn’t seem to be any others in the abbey. Slowly, as the darkness deepened and the inhabitants of the abbey retired for the night, the world outside grew very still. Finally, all was quiet, and even the Wind had died down, for a little while at least.

Pangur Bán looked at him from her place in the doorway, gleaming faintly in the white light of the moon. Without a word she slipped out of the hut and trotted toward the scriptorium; Aidan stood and leaned around the side of the hut in time to see her slip through a tiny opening in the building’s double doors and disappear inside. He smiled, and sat in the spot she had vacated to wait. If Brendan passed by, Aidan would see him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoyed this! Next time I'm thinking we'll be getting a little of Brendan's point of view. (I have no idea when this will happen. We'll see if this recent writing jag has any more juice to it.)
> 
> It's sort of late at night as I'm posting this, so please let me know if I missed any spelling errors or if the format's wonky or any of that. Constructive criticism is also appreciated! Comments of any kind are appreciated, who am I kidding. XD
> 
> Thanks for reading!!


	3. Chapter 3

Brendan stood in the shadow of his uncle’s wall and stared out into a world so green and bright it hurt his eyes.

Trees faced him like a solemn procession, the gaps between them shady and cool. Something about them brought to mind the arch over the abbey chapel’s entrance, the dark space of the sanctuary behind its open doors. The wind ran its invisible fingers through their leaves until the branches waved like people gesturing. Were they telling him to come? Or to stay away? What would happen, either way, if he listened?

A bird he couldn’t identify let loose a liquid flow of notes. ...A bird. The goose. The quills, the scriptorium, the brothers. His uncle.

Not taking his eyes away from the gap in the wall, Brendan crept carefully away, back to the familiarity of the abbey and his pursuit of the goose. It was easy to forget the forest in the excitement that followed, but he found that, later, it returned to his mind as though he had never thought of anything else.

\--

“But where is Iona?” Brendan asked.

“It is far, far away in the sea. Like all islands should be,” Brother Sergei said, his voice measured and soft. “A beautiful place, where the illuminators do not have to build walls.”

In his mind’s eye Brendan saw a round little island, green and fair, snug between blue sea and blue sky. Familiar-looking huts and a lovely stone chapel decorated it. It was a peaceful image, but --

“But the Abbot says that islands are too easy to attack!”

The brothers talked on, but their voices faded into the background as Brendan’s vision changed. The sky turned dark and ships rushed into view, steaming dragons on their prows. Horned heads, lit with a red, burning light, rose from the depths of the ships and set fire to the huts. He could hear the flames crackling as the screams began.

He must have made a noise. The next he knew he was awake and once more in the scriptorium, Brother Assoua exclaiming over his continued presence. The dream still lingered in the corners of his eyes and thoughts, waiting for him to return to it, but the time for sleep was over. Brendan ran to the tower with the plans his uncle had requested.

“I dreamt it was destroyed,” he said to the abbot, only minutes later. “It was so real, Uncle!” Cellach had agreed, but it was clear to Brendan that he did not quite know the kind of reality he meant. And as he looked out his uncle’s window at the abbey grounds and the great stone wall, the dream – different this time, with a sensation like a distant recollection – rose unbidden, surging from his memories to claim his waking mind. A great cloud of crows rose into the air, cawing, speeding the Northmen on. Villagers ran, their screams faint but still piercing. Steel flashed.

The vision ended as abruptly as it had come, and there was an old man with a white cat standing on the grounds far below.

\--

That night his room in the tower cellar felt too small to hold him. Brendan pressed his hand to the stone beside his bed and closed his eyes, and stood once more at the gap in the wall, the sun on his face and a world of green before him. Beautiful. Tempting. _Dangerous,_ he reminded himself in his uncle’s voice. 

His uncle. Staring Brother Leonardo down, disapproval in every line of his face. Letting Brendan stand in silence and -– and daydream while he mapped and diagrammed and worked over how best to protect the abbey. Telling Brother Aidan he shouldn’t have come.

Brother Aidan. Traveling from the coast, through that venerable old growth of a forest, the treasured Book of Iona in a simple bag hung at his side. What did he write in it? What did he illuminate – truly illuminate, words glowing from the pages just as the sunlight had streamed through that crack in the wall? If Heaven shone from the Book, what did it look like? What had Aidan seen?

What could _Brendan_ see, if he looked?

The night seemed to hold its breath, and Brendan did too. Nothing moved. Nothing made a sound. Then Brendan exhaled in a rush, threw his covers off, dressed again, and climbed carefully out of the tower.

\--

Everything happened very quickly. There was a low, sharp, rattling noise, and something dark and huge leapt out of thin air to deny him access to the Book. For a split second he saw, with something that was not his eyes, a round shape etched with lines. He jerked backwards in shock, flung a hand over his face in a useless attempt to shield himself from the sight, tripped, and fell on his back. When he looked up again, half-expecting to see a beast straight out of pagan stories, all he saw was Pangur Bán, sitting on the book and staring down at him with mismatched, disapproving eyes.

\--

The Book had three guards. Pangur was the first. Brendan bore the weight of the white cat’s searching gaze, offered his assurances that he would not harm the Book –- and somehow earned her trust and affection. Brother Aidan’s sudden appearance startled him; accusations of intrusion, however joking, made him push the Book away in an honest show of goodwill. But somehow he had earned the brother’s trust as well. Aidan slid the Book back to him, laughing his approval when anyone else would have scolded him and sent him back to bed. 

The third guard was Brendan’s own doubt, a sort of warning prickle in his fingers where they rested against Brother Aidan’s bag. The impatience had been knocked out of him by Pangur and Aidan and whatever he had seen in that split second when he’d fallen, and the gravity of his choice –- of the decision to see, the decision to _know,_ and the awareness that he would have to do something with his newfound knowledge -– struck him anew. He remembered then, suddenly, what the brothers had said. 

“Maybe I...” he hedged aloud. “The brothers said that sinners are blinded if they glance at the Book. So maybe I shouldn’t.”

“Is that what you really believe will happen?”

Was it?

“There’s nothing in this life but mist, is there, lad,” Brother Aidan murmured. He turned to the fire, placing his hands on the carved stone over the hearth and leaning into the warmth. “It’s your decision. No one else’s.”

The tingling in his fingers intensified. Brendan _wanted._ He held his breath, held it for a second longer, and then eased the Book out of its satchel. 

The air left his lungs in a rush.

\--

Brother Aidan’s words lilted, rose and fell, filled the empty scriptorium with something that sounded almost like music. Time dragged, then stopped entirely, leaving the three of them, the Book, and the fire -– a bubble of motion in a world of stillness. Only the wind remained of the outside world, leaning in through the scriptorium’s open windows to listen.

_“It’s a humble little berry…but it makes the deepest emerald green ink you will ever see.”_

Even oak trees begin as seeds.

_“It is only the work of mere mortals, I’m afraid, like me…or you.”_

Aidan, standing in the warm glow of the firelight, beaming. Not an angel. But yet…

_“Do you want to see the most beautiful page -– the one that will turn darkness into light?”_

An unformed page, white and shining with potential.

_“The Book is a beacon in these dark days of the Northmen.”_

Darkness transforming into light. He could be a part of that, if he wanted.

Brother Aidan dashed away, Pangur Bán at his heels, ready to enter the forest in search of oak trees and their berries despite the late hour. Brendan had already started after him when he remembered, and the weight of the rest of the world slammed back into place around him. Nothing had changed.

“I can’t go -– I’m not allowed outside the walls. It’s too dangerous.”

All at once the energy and light went out of Brother Aidan, and he was once more only a stooped old man with a marvelous voice. “It is dangerous,” he admitted, and sighed as he returned slowly to the front of the room. “On Iona...I lost my brothers to attackers from the outside.” His shadow flickered and shifted in time to his words. Brendan hardly noticed. "Now, I have only the Book to remember them by. 

“But. If my brothers were here now, they would tell you that you will learn more in the woods from trees and rocks than in many other places. You will see _miracles._ And,” he concluded, gathering the Book into his arms and turning away once more, “that is something the abbot knew, a long time ago.”

\--

Brendan stood in the scriptorium for a long time, looking after Brother Aidan. Finally, he stirred himself, banked the dying fire, and closed the wooden door securely behind him for the night. When he stepped into the open air once more, ready at last to end his long day, Pangur Bán was waiting for him.

\--

“I’ve never seen anything like it, Pangur,” he told the white cat once they were both safely ensconced in his cellar bedroom. “I really want to help Brother Aidan.” He fiddled absently with a board and chalk as he thought aloud, and Pangur Bán curled up by his feet and purred as he spoke.

“I think I could get those ink berries all by myself. I could go into the forest...wouldn’t Brother Aidan be surprised!” But then, towering above him and Aidan alike -– “I’d be back before he’d even miss me,” Brendan decided, dismissing his uncle at once. But -– “What if I get lost? In the dark? No!”

Brendan threw his drawing to the floor without looking at what he had created. The board shattered into a dozen pieces on impact; the remains of a circle fragmented with many lines stared blankly, unseen and unseeing, up at the cellar ceiling. Pangur made a worried noise and stood to brace her front paws on Brendan’s knees; the boy rubbed his face in his hands, breathing harshly, but after a moment slowly drew out a new board.

“If...I keep thinking of the Book,” he said, hesitating only a little, “I won’t be afraid of the dark. And I’m sure I won’t have to go that far...” He paused to correct a misdrawn line, then sighed and put the drawing away entirely.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” he told Pangur again, more quietly. The faintest of breezes slid in through the window high above; it smelled fresh and green. The cat still leaning against his legs met his eyes for a long moment, looking at Brendan as though she might suddenly speak and voice her opinion on the matter -– then began to knead. Brendan grinned at his fanciful thought, thankful that he couldn’t feel her claws through his blanket. Soon, though, his thoughts turned back to the Book.

He had wanted to look into it for a glimpse of the outside world, and that was what it, through Brother Aidan and his talk of oak berries, had presented to him. The thought of helping Brother Aidan, of seeing something of the mysterious world beyond the abbey walls, of what he could gain, filled him with excitement. And yet... He glanced briefly down at the ruined board beside his bed, looked away just as quickly.

“I’m still afraid,” he admitted to Pangur. “I don’t know how to decide.”

The wind sidled into his room again, blowing itself out against his legs almost as though it had settled down beside Pangur to watch him. It filled the room like a physical thing.

 _If you go into the forest you will be afraid again._ It sounded like his own voice, like Aidan, like his uncle.

Brendan knew that. But if he stayed here he’d still be afraid. He wouldn’t be able to help Aidan. He wouldn’t be able to learn more, or to do anything with what he’d learned already. 

_You will find courage despite your fear?_

Brendan would.

_Why?_

He couldn’t stay this way –- ignorant. He wanted to help. He wanted to _see._ He wanted to see life –- his life, the forest’s life -– in all of what it could be. He wanted to build from it, to preserve it.

_In the Book?_

In the Book. And…and elsewhere, too, if he could.

_In Life and for Life._

“In Life and for Life,” Brendan repeated in a whisper. 

Slowly, the sense that something else was in the room with him faded. At last only the scent of greenery remained. Pangur Bán made a satisfied noise deep in her throat and removed herself from Brendan’s knees as he lay down and stretched. 

“Right, so, Pangur. Tomorrow, I’ll go into the forest,” he said drowsily, already falling asleep. The last thing he knew was a warm weight beside his calves: Pangur, settling down for the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a long time in coming! Thanks to anyone who's still reading. Again, no promises on when the next chapter will come out, but I think it'll be a fun one.


End file.
